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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27258892">Stray Italian Greyhound</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikripetra/pseuds/mikripetra'>mikripetra</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Emotional Constipation, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Introspection, Language of Flowers, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Relationship Advice, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Romance, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Teen Magazines, as in aziraphale's entire arc in canon is a metaphor for internalized homophobia, they're idiots and i love them</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:20:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,869</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27258892</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikripetra/pseuds/mikripetra</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale has resigned himself to never getting what he truly wants. It’s simply a fact of life.</p><p>And even now that he’s fairly sure Crowley returns his affections, Aziraphale’s gone and ruined the whole thing. Even if Crowley knew how he felt, Aziraphale would most likely get rejected out of turn. Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t blame Crowley for being upset at his behavior.</p><p>Aziraphale will have to make it up to him, somehow. But he doesn’t have the slightest idea of where to start. </p><p>In the words of an underpaid typesetter of the 16th century, Aziraphale thinks, bugger all this for a lark.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>116</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Stray Italian Greyhound</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/706657">what do i do - animatic</a> by sebcore.
        </li>

    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>So what do I do with this?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This sudden burst of sunlight</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And me with my umbrella</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cross-indexing every weatherman’s report</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I was ready for the downslide</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But not for spring to well up</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This feeling calls for everything I can’t afford</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To know</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Is possible now</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Crowley looks at him across the table. Aziraphale has to look down to meet his gaze. Crowley’s always had terrible posture, Aziraphale knows. He’s still not sure if it has to do with Crowley not quite fitting in a human skin, his muscles refusing to be in any position that doesn’t involve bending and curving in a way that’s as close to serpentine as he can get while still smirking out of a human-shaped mouth, or if it’s far simpler. Perhaps Crowley just likes to be contrary.</p><p>Aziraphale takes another sip of champagne to hide his smile behind the lip of the glass. Crowley always did like to be contrary.</p><p>“Angel,” Crowley begins, voice a low, relaxed drawl, “What do you say we get out of here?”</p><p>Aziraphale straightens even further. “Well, I suppose we have been hogging the table for a rather long time. Let me finish up with this last batch of palmiers, and we’ll leave straight away.”</p><p>Crowley throws his whole upper body to the side and back in a spectacularly dramatized eye roll, his mouth set in a half-frown. “Come on, angel, you know what I- I mean get out of <em>here.</em> Not the restaurant. London.”</p><p>“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale snaps, eyebrows narrowing. “You can go on holiday to Alpha Centauri whenever you wish, but I certainly will <em>not</em> be-”</p><p>“Oh come off it, don’t be thick,” Crowley huffs. “I mean, leave London, yeah, but for, like, the country. Get away from some of the noise, I thought.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s fork freezes halfway on its journey to his mouth. “You mean…”</p><p>“A cottage,” Crowley says, at the same time Aziraphale completes his thought and stutters, “Together?”</p><p>Crowley fidgets in his chair. “Well, of course. What else are we going to do?”</p><p>“You want to move,” Aziraphale parses out, slowly, “to the suburbs. And live in…a cottage? With <em>me?”</em></p><p>“You don’t have to make a big deal out of it,” Crowley mutters. “Just an idea. Mind’s still all jumbled from all the…yeah. Forget I said anything.”</p><p>Before Aziraphale can find the words to respond, the waitress rushes over with their check. Aziraphale might have given her a slight nudge.</p><p>They don’t talk about it on the drive home.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s not that Aziraphale doesn’t love him.</p><p>He’d realized that fact, after the events of Armageddon. It was a rather inescapable fact. For all that others might brand him as a doddering old fool, Aziraphale <em>is</em> quite intelligent.</p><p>He knows he’s been in love with Crowley for… At least five hundred years, if he’s being especially frugal. It’s hopeless, too. It’s not like the humans he’d spent time getting to know over the years, only to leave in the end with nary a thought of regret. Crowley has been at the forefront of Aziraphale’s mind since the Beginning.</p><p>But there’s a reason why demons have the job of temptation. Demons exist to give humans the easy way out, to put the deepest desire of their hearts right in the grasp, as long as they’re willing to sacrifice their connection to the Almighty to get it.</p><p>Loving Crowley has never been the issue. Doing something about it is something Aziraphale has kept himself from thinking about for his entire existence.</p><p>Aziraphale knows how things work. There are certain things he can get away with, like the occasional dalliance, hoarding all the books that are dear to his heart, eating sushi and crepes whenever he gets the craving. But if all of those things were taken away, Aziraphale would be alright. He would be able to manage with what was left.</p><p>But Crowley? Aziraphale can’t remember a time before he knew him. If Crowley were to leave, if Crowley were to be <em>taken </em>from him…</p><p>It didn’t bear thinking about.</p><p>So that’s what Aziraphale has been doing. Very fastidiously <em>not </em>thinking about it.</p><p>Aziraphale has resigned himself to never getting what he truly wants. It’s simply a fact of life.</p><p>And even now that he’s fairly sure Crowley returns his affections, Aziraphale’s gone and ruined the whole thing. Even if Crowley knew how he felt, Aziraphale would most likely get rejected out of turn. Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t blame Crowley for being upset at his behavior.</p><p>Aziraphale will have to make it up to him, somehow. But he doesn’t have the slightest idea of where to start.</p><p>In the words of an underpaid typesetter of the 16<sup>th</sup> century, Aziraphale thinks, bugger all this for a lark.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale gets a lot of mail. Usually it’s just human fodder- advertisements and brochures, bills he’ll make miraculously go away, and the occasional strongly-worded note. But Aziraphale combs through it all anyway, like a magpie, looking for anything of interest to add to his vast collection of knowledge.</p><p>As he’s sorting through his latest pile, a garish-looking magazine catches his eye. <em>TEEN</em>, it reads, above the head of a terribly photoshopped young woman with her face caked in makeup. He scans the front cover idly, half-thinking of which teas he has left in his kitchen cabinet to make before dinner. One of the subtitles reads, <em>Dating Advice: How to Get Mr. Right to Look at You Twice! </em></p><p>Aziraphale blanches.</p><p>He hasn’t stooped this low. Surely not.</p><p>The magazine sits on his desk for three weeks, untouched.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s not that he’s been avoiding Crowley.</p><p>Honestly, he hasn’t. Crowley still comes by the shop a few nights a week, and they drink themselves into oblivion. Sometimes they get dinner. They laugh, often.</p><p>But they don’t talk. Not really. Not about anything substantial, or important.</p><p>Aziraphale is sitting by himself in his back room, staring longingly at the seat Crowley usually fills. He thinks of Crowley’s chameleon-like changes over the years, the way he slams his foot on the gas whenever he drives. He thinks of Crowley coming to save him from the Nazis, hopping from foot to foot, saving Aziraphale’s books from the explosion with no ulterior motive in mind. He thinks of Crowley being kind to him, in countless tiny, gigantic ways, for no other reason than deeply-held affection.</p><p>Aziraphale glances down at the glass of wine in his hand and thinks, quite succinctly, <em>Fuck it. </em></p><p>He puts on his spectacles, opens the magazine, and begins to read.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Forty minutes later, Aziraphale is considerably less sober, and considerably more frustrated.</p><p>“This is rubbish,” he mutters to himself. “<em>Flirt the </em>right <em>way?</em> What on earth does that even mean?”</p><p>Aziraphale scans the page for sentences that actually make sense, and chuckles wryly at the one he finds.</p><p><em>“Look him in the eye</em>, it says,” Aziraphale scoffs. “Oh, well that should be easy. It’s not like he’s been wearing those blasted glasses since the Crucifixion.”</p><p>Aziraphale gets to the tenth point on the list, and just as he’s ready to incinerate the damn magazine altogether, he pauses.</p><p>
  <em>Ask for his help.</em>
</p><p>Aziraphale brightens. Well, there’s one down. Perhaps he isn’t as hopeless as he thought.</p><p>The next point reads, <em>Go on a drive together. </em>Followed by, <em>Give him a personal gift. </em></p><p>Aziraphale smiles to himself. This, he could do.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Crowley cackles as he speeds down the street, one hand braced on the steering wheel and the other forcing the car’s gears to shift into a place they were never meant to go.</p><p>“Good Lord, be careful!” Aziraphale bellows, gripping onto the seat with all the strength he can muster.</p><p>“Which lord is that, angel?” Crowley asks over the sound of the tires crying out for the sweet release of death. “Byron?”</p><p>“Oh, Lord Byron!” Aziraphale reminisces warmly. “He was such a nice chap. Wrote a good dozen poems about me. He was quite drunk at the time, of course- thought I was a man called Eddleston.”</p><p>Crowley glances at him sidelong. “You’re kidding. That was a joke, right?”</p><p>Aziraphale frowns. “I never joke about poetry, dear boy.”</p><p>Crowley makes a series of sounds that could charitably be called exclamations of disbelief. “You and <em>Byron? </em>Are you telling me you’re the- the one he talks about with the ‘voice first attracted my attention, his countenance fixed it, and his manners attached me to him for ever’? Come off it, that’s not you.”</p><p>Aziraphale grins, wildly. “You’ve read George’s writings? How splendid!”</p><p>Crowley makes another one of those choking sounds, his gaze still fixed on Aziraphale’s face, even as he continues to speed. Aziraphale catches sight of the incoming traffic a second before it’s too late, throwing out a hand to make the car brake of its own accord.</p><p>“You go too fast, Crowley,” Aziraphale mutters, breathing hard.</p><p>Both of them freeze, gazes directed anywhere but each other.</p><p>“I-” Aziraphale begins, desperate to shatter the ice that’s formed between them in the matter of seconds.</p><p>“Sorry, angel,” Crowley says, sharply. “I’ll- sorry. I’m sorry.”</p><p><em>What a pair,</em> Aziraphale thinks. <em>He’s too fast, and I’m too late. </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale finds himself knocking on Crowley’s door. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. All he knows is that it’s been long enough that he’s ravenous, half-mad with how much he’s starved for Crowley’s presence.</p><p>There isn’t an immediate answer, and he frowns. He knocks again, more sharply this time.</p><p>“Crowley!” Aziraphale calls. “Are you there?”</p><p>Just as Aziraphale is raising his fist to deliver another pointed knock, the door swings open.</p><p>Crowley is standing there, hair disheveled and fully-yellow eyes glazed over, looking at him in naked confusion. He’s barefoot, he’s got black silk pajama bottoms on, and no shirt at all. Aziraphale very pointedly doesn’t look below his collarbones after that first, fleeting glance.</p><p>“Whazzit?” Crowley slurs. “W’happen?”</p><p>Aziraphale swallows nervously. “I-I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”</p><p>Crowley inhales sharply and rolls his neck, causing more <em>cracks </em>than any human would be capable of producing without instant death.</p><p>Crowley cocks an eyebrow at him, slow, his eyes filled with a great deal more clarity. “Angel, it’s the middle of the night.”</p><p>“Oh,” Aziraphale says, realizing exactly what he’s walked in on, feeling a blush rise high on his cheekbones. “I’m terribly sorry. Please, go back to- to whoever you’ve got in there. I’ll come back later. Don’t mind me.”</p><p> Quick as a whip, Crowley grabs his arm. “What?”</p><p>Aziraphale releases himself, quickly. “Really, I never should have come, it’s fine-”</p><p>“I was <em>sleeping</em>,” Crowley says, quietly.</p><p>Aziraphale looks at him head on, mouth open in shock.</p><p>“Oh,” he says, lamely.</p><p>Crowley drags a hand down his face, giving himself a little jolt with a sniff. There’s still a soft smile on his face. Aziraphale notices, rather belatedly, that he’s not wearing his glasses. And because of that, it’s unmistakable that Crowley’s eyes haven’t left his once during the course of their entire encounter.</p><p>“You wanna-” Crowley interrupts himself with a yawn. “Come in for a cup of tea? Watch some bad telly?”</p><p>Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest, but then he sees the look in Crowley’s eyes. His body language is relaxed, his limbs loose and hips cocked as usual. But his eyes are full of desperation. <em>Please don’t go.</em></p><p>Aziraphale, not for the first time, feels the urge to slap himself. How could he have missed this?</p><p>“I think I’d like that very much,” Aziraphale responds, quietly, the nighttime air giving him a blanket of confidence. In the dark, he can say what he really thinks. He knows he’s not dreaming, but he might as well be. Neither of them will ever mention this again.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale knows he’s being ridiculous.</p><p>In retrospect, he can’t believe how overt Crowley had been with his affections. For all he talks about being aloof and uncaring, Crowley really does wear his heart on his sleeve.</p><p>It’s like a cookie jar, as juvenile and idiotic as the metaphor sounds. Aziraphale’s right hand keeps reaching for it, only to be smacked away by his left.</p><p>Well, the left hand doesn’t have the power of Heaven behind it any longer. Aziraphale is officially retired- he has been since the Apocalypse. But it’s simply not as easy as a snap of the fingers to get rid of thousands of years of instinctual fear and self-control.</p><p>Aziraphale decides that it’s not worth it to get involved with Crowley, that he doesn’t want to risk Heaven’s wrath, doesn’t want to change the good thing they have going. But then something ridiculous happens, like Crowley holding the door open for him at a museum, or sitting there with his chin on his hands as he watches Aziraphale eat with undisguised pleasure on his face, and Aziraphale <em>melts.</em></p><p>He still has an item left on the list.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>When Aziraphale knocks on Crowley’s door this time, it’s daylight outside. He checked.</p><p>Crowley swings the door open, clad in his usual attire, glasses on.</p><p>“Hello,” Aziraphale exclaims, feeling quite foolish, now that he’s here. He’s got a bouquet of flowers in one hand, a ridiculously frilly heart-shaped box of chocolates in the other.</p><p>Crowley doesn’t laugh at him. Crowley- Crowley <em>blushes. </em></p><p>“Ngk?” Crowley squeaks.</p><p>Aziraphale thrusts the mess of assorted flowers into Crowley’s arms. “May I come in?”</p><p>Crowley moves aside automatically. He’s still looking at the flowers, gingerly touching them like he’s expecting them to disappear.</p><p>“<a href="https://daily.jstor.org/four-flowering-plants-decidedly-queered/">Green carnations</a>?” Crowley whispers.</p><p>Aziraphale’s eyes widen. The blasted flowers had gained a mind of their own somewhere between here and the flower shop.</p><p>“Well,” Aziraphale says, privately astonished at the steadiness of his voice, “You know how much time I spent with Wilde.”</p><p>Crowley’s brain seems to stop working at that. His mouth forms several shapes before settling into a thin line.</p><p>“You want some wine?” Crowley chokes out.</p><p>“Very much.”</p><p>Crowley leads him over to his couch before heading off into the kitchen, flowers still in hand, stumbling over his own feet in the process. He hisses at a nonexistent enemy, “<em>Pisssss off!” </em></p><p>Aziraphale can’t stop smiling.</p><p>When Crowley comes back, he’s got two wine glasses, a full bottle, and the flowers, looking artfully arranged in a tasteful mauve vase.</p><p>Crowley carefully places the flowers on the coffee table before pouring them both a glass. He opens the box of chocolates, lips twitching, before setting them in between the two of them on the couch. He doesn’t reach for one- just watches Aziraphale, expectantly.</p><p>Aziraphale takes a chocolate and pops it in his mouth, if only to ease some of the tension. He can’t help but make a pleased sound. “Ooo, ganache! How delightful.”</p><p>Aziraphale glances up at Crowley to see the demon staring at him, an utterly besotted look on his face.</p><p>Aziraphale takes a very large gulp of his wine.</p><p>“So what’s the deal, angel?” Crowley asks.</p><p>“I’m in love with you,” Aziraphale blurts out.</p><p>Crowley’s glasses fall down his nose.</p><p>“You…” Crowley swallows. “You’re what?”</p><p>“I am in love with you, and I have been for centuries!” Aziraphale announces, faintly recognizing that he’s shouting. “I want to spend the rest of eternity with you, getting dinner, and driving- and- and- kissing! And I don’t care if you don’t feel the same anymore, because I know I’ve bungled this terribly, but I’m in love with you, and I don’t <em>care </em>how you feel about it!”</p><p>At some point, Aziraphale has stood. As his words echo in the room, he feels more like a fool than he ever has.</p><p>He opens his mouth to apologize, to say <em>something </em>to fix this all, when Crowley speaks.</p><p>“I’ve been in love with you for six thousand years.”</p><p>Aziraphale sits back down.</p><p>And promptly begins to cry.</p><p>“Oh, angel,” Crowley murmurs, wrapping his spindly arms around Aziraphale’s middle.</p><p>“Really?” Aziraphale asks, breath hitching and gasping. “You really have?”</p><p>Crowley nods against his face. He burrows his head into Aziraphale’s neck, almost like- almost like he’s breathing him in.</p><p>The effect becomes decidedly less romantic when Crowley darts his tongue out to touch a patch of skin on his neck.</p><p>It’s so startling that Aziraphale laughs. “What on earth are you doing, you silly man?”</p><p>“You smell good!” Crowley defends. “I’m smelling you! I’m a snake, give me a break!”</p><p>Aziraphale laughs again, tears still wet on his cheeks. Crowley joins in.</p><p>“I’m sorry I was so cruel to you about the cottage,” Aziraphale says quietly.</p><p>Crowley’s whole body stiffens. “Hey, don’t worry about it, it was a stupid idea to begin with.”</p><p>Aziraphale starts shaking his head before Crowley’s even finished.</p><p>“No,” he says, pulling back. He smooths Crowley’s hair back from his face, presses a kiss to his cheek, his forehead, his chin. “No, no, it was a wonderful idea. I was terrified. I’m so sorry, my dear. I was so scared. I should have said yes. I’m saying yes. I’m not going to wait anymore.”</p><p>Crowley leans in and kisses him properly, on the lips, again and again, and <em>oh, </em>isn’t that wonderful?</p><p>“I love you,” Crowley whispers, low, his eyes mostly closed.</p><p>Aziraphale doesn’t want to start crying again. So he just kisses Crowley harder.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks so much for reading! I saw sebcore's animatic for these two set to "stray italian greyhound" and I couldn't NOT write a fic based on it. Most of this original, but I absolutely did pull from sebcore's beautiful animatic. Go check it out!</p><p>Please leave a comment below for any reason. You'll literally make my day.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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